


Keeping things civil (Socializing with The Hood)

by Jules_Ink



Series: the Vegas!verse [5]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Gen, Interlude, Men being manly dealing with emotional stuff, One Shot, Vegas!AU, Vegas!Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:11:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4940971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jules_Ink/pseuds/Jules_Ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had strategized how to approach the meeting with the man he knew was the resident vigilante. He should have known that his strategy of basic politeness was doomed right from the start. (Interlude accompanying What Happened in Vegas.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping things civil (Socializing with The Hood)

**Author's Note:**

> As promised [threatened?], I’m still not done with this ‘verse. But, good news, this is **Albiona** -[ap]proved. Thanks for not being done with this ‘verse, too. 
> 
> I do not own any of these wonderful characters or anything else known from Arrow. I’m just borrowing them to play with, I intend no copyright infringement and I [sadly] don’t make any money from this.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this short piece and it fills the gap I mean for it to close. :) Happy reading. Love, Jules

**May 30 th, 2013**  
  
Quentin Lance had the home field advantage.  
  
Sitting down by the counter in this run-down Asian diner, he only had to smile in greeting at In-Sook Ko, and the young Korean woman serving Chinese food adjusted for American taste buds matched his smile, asking, “The usual, Detective?”  
  
Quentin Lance shook his head. As much as he loved Chop suey (it was perfectly hot and greasy the way Ki-woo, In-Sooks's husband and cook, did it), his stomach was too tied up in knots to get anything down. “Just a soda for now.”  
  
The black-haired woman in the red dress moved closer to him behind the counter. “Everything okay, Detective?”  
  
“Yeah, I'm just expecting somebody,” he sent the young woman another smile.  
  
He liked the Kos; they were kind people. In-Sook always said his rank as if it were his name, as if it defined him. It felt fitting, because lately Lance felt like he was nothing but a police officer, like his whole life consisted of his job. There certainly wasn't much left beside it—and he was afraid that the last remaining thing would leave him, too. Laurel, his only living daughter, the only family he had left, was earnestly considering the job offer from Coast City. Lance knew where that was coming from; it came from the same place that made his son-in-law shed his own family name like a too tight skin and become a Lance.  
  
Not that Quentin could fault the boy. 'Lance' was a good, strong name.  
  
And it wasn't attached to mass murder.  
  
The offer for Laurel Lance to become Coast City's Assistant District Attorney wasn't related to the man-made earthquake killing more than one hundred people in the Glades roughly three weeks back. It was a good offer, a smart career move—her father knew all that. But he still wished his daughter and her husband would stay in Starling. Even though a member of their family had harmed Starling in a truly horrifying way. He wished it didn't feel so much like those two were running from responsibility. But it did.  
  
In-Sook placed a glass in front of him, filled with soda and ice cubes. Water collected on the outside of the glass. It was always hot in the 'Chinese Dragon' owned by Koreans, the warm air coated with the smells of the food, spicy and sweet, soaking into his clothes. Quentin didn't mind. Other colleagues spent their breaks in bars or smoking on the hoods of their cars. Lance had left smelling like booze and cigarettes behind. Instead, he came with the scent of greasy food and a nice, superficial conversation with people who knew his 'usual,' but not much else.  
  
There was a certain loneliness attached to that thought, and Quentin Lance didn't even try to deny it.  
  
When had he become so anti-social? Because even if people called him 'a loner' like it was some badge to wear, it didn't change the fact there just weren't many people in his life. In fact, there was just Laurel, really. She now came with her husband, Tommy. He cared for the boy, too. But that was the whole extent of people he interacted with outside of work. Quentin Lance didn't like socializing with... anybody. Actually, he didn't like people. It came with the job, probably. He saw people at their worst, every day he saw what they were capable of, how careless and ruthless they could be. It had to make you bitter.  
  
Or maybe it was just him.  
  
There were many, many other cops out there who managed not to be cynical bastards, who had families to go home to and a healthy social life.  
  
Laurel leaving—and even though she was officially still debating it, her dad knew that, in reality, she had decided when the offer came—meant the last two people in his life would leave him, too. Maybe it was a bit overly dramatic, but a thousand miles between him and his daughter felt like a big enough stretch that was hard to bridge with phone conversations.  
  
And Lance was horrible when it came to talking on the phone.  
  
As teenagers his girls, Laurel and Sara, spent hours on the phone. Their father had never understood what they could possibly talk about for such a long time and why they just didn't go and talk to that other person (mostly other girls) face to face. Lance remembered fights over the phone between his girls, giggling against the receiver and long, heated rants about teachers and fellow students and boys. Always boys.  
  
Ultimately, it had been a boy coming between his daughters, between the two sisters that were like two sides of a coin, different but fundamentally alike.  
  
The man that boy had turned into entered the 'Chinese Dragon' in that moment. The bells above the door chiming announced his arrival and pulled the detective out of his thoughts.  
  
Oliver Queen's eyes settled on Quentin Lance instantly and with three wide steps he was with him. He didn't offer his hand to the older man, he simply stopped by the chair next to Lance's at the counter and said in greeting, “Detective Lance.”  
  
“Queen.”  
  
The name slipped past Quentin's lips. It was automatic. When he thought about Oliver Queen (which he tried not to but failed, because the man gave the detective so much to think about) he always referred to him by his family name. Doing so kept a certain amount of distance between them that Lance liked and needed. But the detective had planned this meeting, thought it over and strategized how to approach it, and he had originally decided to add a “Mister” to the family name when meeting in person. Lance had been the one to ask him to come here, Lance was the one who needed this, needed answers. Lance owed his life to the man and his bodyguard, and he had decided that he had to show Oliver Queen some respect.  
  
That had obviously not happened.  
  
The meeting was off to a fabulous start.  
  
Lance didn't even try to correct himself. Instead, he simply gestured to the high chair next to his, silently asking the younger man to take a seat. He sat down without batting an eye.  
  
“Can I get you anything?” In-Sook's voice cut through the slightly uneasy atmosphere and as soon as Lance looked at her he knew that his home field advantage had always been an illusion. The petite woman was smiling strangely at Queen, her eyes sliding over him quickly but appreciatively. Of course, the guy wore one of those ridiculously tight long sleeve shirts, parading his biceps around. One would think women were smart enough to look beyond that—turns out many weren't. Not even the wonderful (and married) In-Sook Ko.  
  
“Just a water, please.” The billionaire answered her question, seemingly unfazed by her wandering eyes. The jerk was probably used to all that female attention.  
  
“Of course, Mr. Queen.” In-Sook added a little bow and Lance wasn't even surprised anymore. The Queens—the matriarch, the son, his wife, the daughter—had always been in the news, had always been famous in this city. After the Undertaking, the news coverage revolving around them had spiked—and not in the best way. The two cold blonde women carrying the Queen name weren't exactly popular these days (when had they ever been?) but Oliver Queen and his sister Thea were, providing the public with tragic life stories including deserted islands and drug-infused breakdowns. People ate that crap up.  
  
Reminding himself that this whole meeting had been his idea, that it had taken him weeks to gather his courage to actually ask for it, Lance forced himself to say something, and to stick to his vow of politeness this time. “Thank you for coming.”  
  
“Of course.” Queen spoke calmly, but the experienced policeman detected a hint of nervousness in his voice. He noticed the rigid way the other man held himself, how straight his back was and how deliberately he put his arm on the counter after stilling moving fingers. Queen met his eyes. “Thank you for reaching out. I think we really need to talk.”  
  
Seems like The Hood had decided to keep this civil, too.  
  
“Yeah,” Lance agreed and dug his brain for what to say next. He felt awkward, out of his element, and that made him somewhat angry. He had asked to do this here, in this familiar environment, to feel more in charge. But at the same time he had vowed not to attack this conversation like an interrogation—and now he didn't know what to do, how to start. Apparently, he couldn't talk to people when it wasn't for his job. And the fact that a past filled with utter dislike stood between him and the man he was trying to talk to didn't help one bit.  
  
Neither did the fact that Queen obviously was as uneasy as he was.  
  
But it was Queen continuing the conversation (and it irked Lance that the other man found his footing first). “I couldn't help but notice the distinct lack of policemen knocking in my door, arresting me.”  
  
“I thought about it,” Lance admitted. “But we’ve had better things to do in the few last weeks. And I couldn't help but notice a distinct lack of....” he trailed off, seeing In-Sook approach them to serve the water.  
  
Only when she retreated to the other end of the counter, talking to a guest, did Queen speak up, filling in the blanks left in the detective's sentence. “I had better things to do, too.”  
  
Lance simply nodded. He could imagine. On the night of the Undertaking, after getting stitched up in a hospital, he had driven down to the Glades with the billionaire's bodyguard John Diggle (against doctor's orders, of course). He had been high on pain killers, the last horrible hours still fresh on his shaken mind, and had arrived just as Felicity Queen was carried out of the ruins of the collapse clinic, her husband by her side. The normally always so put together and collected woman was a mess—and there wasn't a politer way to say it. Her husband had stayed as close to her as he could without climbing onto the stretcher, his face ashen, fallen, and helpless.  
  
Quentin Lance had seen Oliver Queen when the first shake of the earthquake hit. He had heard him shout his wife's name into the night. He had seen him run to get to her (which did involve the guy jumping over the edge of a skyscraper) in pure desperation. Quentin Lance had seen a man who loved his wife, a man afraid to lose somebody he loved, a man willing to do anything to keep her safe.  
  
That was something—somebody—Quentin Lance could relate to.  
  
Maybe it was witnessing all this that stopped him from having the man arrested. Witnessing Oliver Queen fight against and nearly be defeated by Malcolm Merlyn, risking his own life to save others, remembering how many people The Hood had saved lately, remembering how Queen had pleaded with him to stop being a fool made him see the other man in a new light—in a better light.  
  
“You have some questions.”  
  
Again, it was Queen filling the gap in conversation. Again, Lance chided himself to get it together. He straightened up in his chair. “Yes,” he confirmed, happy to hear the determination in his own voice. “I need to know what happened with that boat. What happened with my Sara.” He didn't even think about voicing it like a question. Because he wasn't asking. He was demanding to be told. And he couldn't let the younger man leave without doing that—no matter that he knew that the muscles In-Sook had visibly appreciated weren't only for show.  
  
Queen's calm slipped for a second. Something flashed in his eyes and his index finger jumped to his thumb, but the moment passed as soon as it came. His fingers stilled, a look of indifference returned to his eyes. “I don't think—” he started, but the detective didn't let him finish.  
  
“You'll tell me right this instant or God help me, I'll—” His grip on his coolness was slipping, he needed to stop right there or lose it completely. He took a calming breath. “Your mother said that Merlyn killed your father. I asked you before, but this time I expect an answer: did the boat really sink because of a storm?”  
  
The tight shirt the other man wore revealed his flexing muscles. It was a twitch showing Lance that he wasn't the only one close to losing his calm. He glared at Queen, who pressed his lips together, his eyes darting to a place behind the detective. Shortly, the only sounds were of whatever getting thrown into a hot wok and steam-clouds erupting from it, the dim voices of the other people present, and the soft instrumental music playing in the background.  
  
With the air of a decision being made, Oliver Queen placed his attention back on Quentin Lance. His voice was quiet but even when he said, “No. _The Gambit_ didn't sink because of a storm.”  
  
“Then, why?” Lance asked, impatient, hating that he had to ask for that information, that Queen didn't simply provide it when it was obvious what the father wanted, _needed_ to know.  
  
“We believe Merlyn planted a bomb on the yacht.”  
  
The word 'bomb' echoed in Lance's brain that was suddenly awfully empty. He didn't really know what he had expected, but somehow it hadn't been _that_. He had to break eye-contact. He reached for his soda, noticing that his hand was shaking from the truth and the reality of the situation. He took a huge gulp of his too cold soda. His teeth stung. That was good. Something to concentrate on. He inhaled deeply.  
  
“I'm sorry, Detective,” Queen said. He sounded so sincere but Sara's father didn't want his pity, not even his compassion. All he wanted want to know more.  
  
“Did she die in the explosion?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then how, _damn it_!” He exploded in aggravation, catching the unwanted attention of the other costumers. He shifted in his seat, uneasily, unhappily, and leaned closer to the younger man whose lips were pressed together once more. “Queen, I need some answers. For my sanity. I need to know what really happened. Consider this my truce-offering: you tell me and I won't tell on you.”  
  
There was something in Queen's eyes, he couldn't quite place. It came with the squaring of his shoulders as the billionaire stated, “I'll tell you. But not to keep you quiet. I'll tell you because you're right: you deserve to know. I've learned that the truth can be very powerful. But you might not like what you'll learn.”  
  
Lance didn't even hesitate. “Tell me.”  
  
Queen's right arm dropped from the counter and to his lap. Placing both of his palms flat to his legs just above his knees, he turned to the detective completely and said, quietly and measuredly. “The bomb ripped a hole into the cabin Sara and I shared. She was sucked out into the ocean before me. When I broke the water surface, I was rescued by my father in a life-raft. We looked for Sara, but couldn't find her. The storm was strong. I thought she drowned.”  
  
“You thought?” Lance couldn't help but ask, couldn't help but latch onto that word, his breath hitching in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest.  
  
“I found her again one year later. On a freighter close to the island. We spent the next year together, fighting to survive.” He swallowed heavily in an uneasy gesture that seemed entirely genuine to Lance and for once the detective didn't ask what exactly lurked behind the phrase 'fighting to survive.' When Queen continued, his voice softened a little. “She talked a lot about you during that time. She felt awful for sneaking away from you. Not only because of the horrible outcome, but because she knew she disappointed you—and Laurel.” His voice was coated. “She loved you very much. Both of you.”  
  
Lance felt the stinging of tears in his eyes. They fell when the last sentence really sunk in. “Loved?” His own voice was hoarse but he didn't care. He was crying for his baby girl.  
  
“We were on the freighter when a torpedo hit. She was sucked out into the ocean before I could get to her. She slipped through my fingers. Again. I'm sorry.”  
  
Lance stared at the kid, realizing that he wasn't meaning to show compassion with his last statement. He was actually apologizing for not saving Sara, for not bringing his daughter back home. Maybe even for taking her in the first place, Lance didn't really know, but he nodded, wordlessly acknowledging the apology and probably even accepting it.  
  
Quentin Lance had blamed the boy for stepping between his two daughters and for the death of the younger one, because it was good to place blame, to have somebody to be angry at. But deep down Lance had always known: Oliver Queen might be a self-centered, entitled prick whose moral compass was often all over the place and who’d encouraged his daughters’ emotional pain—but he had never set out to get Sara—or himself or whoever—killed. And now that he looked at the man the boy had become he could see that his moral compass had straightened itself out—despite the vigilantism.  
  
This time the detective knew perfectly what he saw in the other man's eyes: guilt and shame and compassion. The combination unsettled Lance even more. He cleared his throat locked by still-falling tears and said the first thing that came into his mind. “Well, if destiny isn't one sick son of a bitch.”  
  
Queen snorted. “Felicity said something similar,” he said quietly. “Doesn't make Sara slipping from me _twice_ any better.”  
  
“You tried.” Lance was surprised that those two words actually passed his lips. He was surprised that he honestly meant them. In his uneasiness, he wiped the tears away and reached for the napkin dispenser on the counter to blow his nose. Hearing all that should be weighing down on him, to hear that Sara's last year on this earth obviously was hard, that she’d been struggling to survive, did shake him. But knowing was better than guessing. He could work through the truth, but he could never work through all imaginable possibilities. Suddenly Queen's last sentence sank in. The detective placed his red, tear-filled eyes back on the younger man who seemed somewhat more relaxed. “You told your wife about this?”  
  
“I did. I started telling her some stuff that happened during my time away in the last weeks.”  
  
“Oh. Way to lift the mood after the Undertaking.” It sounded more judgmental than he had intended, but Quentin Lance didn't apologize to Oliver Queen—even though the latter did look caught.  
  
“It fit the situation,” the younger man defended and reached for his glass of water. He brought it to his lips but kept it hovering in mid-air for a moment to say, “My wife told me to tell you everything if you asked. Called it closure. I... I hope you'll find that.”  
  
Watching Starling City's vigilante take a sip of his tap water, Detective Lance wondered when the man had found such a calm and if he had found his own way to closure. But Lance didn't ask either, instead he gave a wordless jerk of his head. For a second he even contemplated suggesting ordering something, but then he realized that he didn't have a casual dinner with Oliver Queen in him.  
  
There was a truce, yes, but not friendship. He certainly wouldn't bond with that man over his daughter's death.  
  
The detective cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me.” He pursed his lips. “For listening to your wife.”  
  
Not saying anything, Queen brought his glass back up and emptied it in one go. “Of course, Detective. You deserved to know.”  
  
“I only know the basics.” As the sentence left his lips, he realized that he was okay with that, with not knowing every little detail—which were probably all horrible. He was fine with knowing the basics, knowing what happened and where Sara's head had been. He felt closer to her in the strangest way.  
  
Queen carefully set the glass on the counter. “Thank you for not asking for more.” He got up, wordlessly signaling that—even if Lance did ask—he wouldn't say anything else. He placed a dollar bill on the counter that paid for both drinks plus a meal they didn't order. “Detective Lance,” he said in a tone that equaled a 'goodbye.'  
  
“Queen,” he answered. Watching the man who shot arrows into people on a nightly basis (or had that before the Undertaking) leave the 'Chinese Dragon', a strange sensation gathered in the lone man sitting by the counter. For the first time, Quentin Lance felt like he could really mourn, that closure was an actual possibility in his future.


End file.
